


how warm you are

by Skyepilot



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Drabble, Eating, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Marta is the protagonist of Knives Out, Talking, marta is a writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26134402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: Fic drabble. Marta becomes a mystery author, with her first book containing a familiar cast of characters, and some questions that need answers for Benoit.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	how warm you are

_The Book Signing_

It turns out she had to do something with all of those notes he left behind.

She thinks Harlan would be pleased that she took up the craft herself and that she published first in Spanish and then in English.

Of course, Harlan's family argues that it is plagiarism. That they are the victims along with the rest of the world of robbing it of Harlan's final unpublished work. That she grabbed up what was left of his intellectual property as she grabbed away their fortune.

But it was what Harlan wanted. And the words are _hers_. The ideas are _hers_.

Yes, she thinks Harlan would be happy about this. She hopes so, wherever he is.

“Trooper Wagner!” she says with surprise, as he holds out an English copy of _En Las Paredes Huecas_ for her to sign, his eyes jubilant as she opens the front page and picks up her pen.

“Ms. Cabrera,” he says with excitement. “I can actually say I knew you before you were famous.”

She closes the book and holds it out to him, and replies, “That's true.”

“Although now you're famous for writing your own mystery novel, and not for the Thrombeys, you know?”

Sighing, she smiles at him with a bit of weariness. She actually pauses to look quickly down the signing line dreading the thought of one of them being here.

“I think it's so good. And the ending, where you don't know if the ghost did come back to haunt his grandson, or if he's just imagining it?” he says gleefully and pauses, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Is the Deputy Sheriff based on anyone you happen to know?

“Yes,” she answers, looking up at him, blinking. “My sister.”

“Oh, I see,” he says, tucking the book under his arm, slowly nodding as he thinks it through. “So then, the Sheriff is based on...”

“That's Lieutenant Elliot. Yes,” she confirms.

“And the Detective is...you,” he says, pointing at her as he thinks it through. “And the clever investigative reporter with...”

“A unique turn of phrase,” says the warm voice from behind Wagner. Like curiosity wrapped inside of a caramel.

She finds herself sitting up a little straighter at the sound, as Benoit moves in closer, holding her book in his hand and depositing it in one smooth gesture onto the table in front of her.

“Well, hi, Mr. Blanc! Come to get your book signed?” Wagner asks, after being shuffled to the side without any awareness.

Benoit doesn't exactly reply, he just stares down at her, like he is about to begin another of his investigations.

“I must congratulate you on your publishing success, Ms. Cabrera. And also express my very intense interest in the characters and plot within.”

“Any part of it in particular?” she asks him, pressing her lips together after only glancing up at him for a moment.

She opens the book and picks up her pen, puts the tip to the inside page.

“It would absolutely be impolite of me to continue to delay the rest of your literary admirers, but if you could be spared to discuss in further detail...”

“My signing is over at nine,” she says plainly, handing the book up to him. “The coffee shop will still be open.”

“That's a little late for a coffee,” he says with just a hint of negotiation in his tone, using both hands to take the book. “Perhaps dinner, unless you are otherwise engaged, which would certainly be a likely possibility-”

“Are you asking her out on a date?” Wagner asks, with a lopsided smile, looking between both of them.

“Well, uh,” Benoit says, caught off guard for a moment and trying to gauge her reaction.

“ _Yes_ ,” she replies too quickly, nodding, looking at Wagner and then eyes wide, back at Benoit. “To dinner! I mean dinner, not-”

“I'll meet you here, then. At nine,” he says, slipping the book into the pocket of his trench coat.

“Yes, I will be looking forward to it.”

_The Not A Date Date_

“So...what do I call you now?” she asks. “Detective?”

“Oh, Heavens to Betsy, no,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “I'm off the clock. _Benoit_.”

The restaurant is nice. Not too nice, she notices, but then maybe it's because he doesn't want there to be a misunderstanding.

“This place has the best bruschetta you have ever tasted outside of Little Italy. No lie.”

“As long as you promise not to ever call me Ms. Cabrera again,” she tells him, reaching for the basket with the bread inside.

“ _Marta_ ,” he says dutifully.

He starts to create a pool of oil on the plate between them and is shaking different ingredients in bottles on the table into it.

“So you liked my book?” she asks him nonchalantly, following his lead as he tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the oil mix.

The bread is soft and smells delicious, like it just came from the oven, lightly crispy on the outside.

“It was undoubtedly clever and I'm sure that the humor is even more descriptive in the original Spanish,” he replies to her, pausing to put a piece of the bread in his mouth. “I was just struck by several similarities to the case we were on..together.”

“You mean my own experiences?” she replies to him. Truthfully she did not know when she would ever see Benoit again, he was on to the next case, and then that Vanity Fair interview that flipped out the Thrombeys.

She saw him at Ransom's sentencing and that was from across a crowded courtroom. Imagined that he had made a point to let her know he saw her, too, across the room.

Writing the book was a way to excise some of her emotions around the case, to wrestle with having Harlan's death and then his fortune. From living in a great big house with just her mom and sister. Harlan's awful family still hovering over her with their lawyers and threats.

“I suppose I could offer to be more specific?” he asks.

“It would help,” she offers, tasting the bread, and smiles. “This is _really_ good.”

“The intrepid reporter,” he starts, and then stops when the waiter returns, and orders food for himself and waits for her and then for them to be alone again. “With the 'piercing eyes'.”

“I based it a little on my experiences,” she answers with a shrug. “I had to look at Vanity Fair to get their color right.”

“My father always told me that reporters were a necessary evil,” he tells her, his finger extended, going for another piece of bread. “Informing the public, but digging around in police business, trying to beat them to the truth at the heart of the crime.”

“Oh, I didn't realize you might be offended,” she tells him with a frown. “I'm sorry-”

“No, no,” he tells her with a chuckle. “I'm _more_ than flattered. He said the only thing worse was a mystery writer. I think he was referring to Harlan.”

“You said he respected Harlan,” she reminds him, looking at his twinkling eyes.

“And so he did,” he tells her, sitting back in his chair as their plates are delivered. “So he did.”

He waits for her to pick up her fork before he does then asks, leading across the table. ”Do you, perchance, have a sequel planned?”

“Oh, you must have _really_ enjoyed,” she teases him, twisting the pasta around her fork.

“I did,” he starts and then pauses. “And the detective and the reporter. They seem to have developed quite the repartee.”

“I think they learned to understand each other, and learned more about themselves in the process,” she tells him.

“Well,” he gestures with his hand. “What happens next?”

“What?” she laughs. “Do you think they should travel all over solving cases together?”

“There are no ties to geography or jurisdiction I could think of that prevent them from...collaborating as much as they like.”

She watches him eat his pasta, his piercing blue eyes staring up at her while he does.

_The Front Door Conversation_

“Just reminding you,” she says over her shoulder. “That I had to write an entire book to get your attention.”

“Oh, you already had my attention,” he tells her, moving closer to her, looping his car keys around his finger. “I just didn't think a beautiful woman, a newly minted multi-millionaire, would want to bother with a detective tainted by associated trauma.”

“Did you see me during the sentencing?” she asks turning around after quietly opening the front door to her mansion. "I saw you."

“So, you did notice,” he says with a tender smile lit by the glow from inside the house.

“And challenging the Thrombeys in the press. Was that your way of trying to protect me?”

“Hmm,” he says with a nod, dropping the keys back into his coat pocket. “Is that where you found the idea of your intrepid reporter?”

“Yes,” she tells him with a sideways glance, a roll of her eyes. “Someone that I could impress with my super detective skills.”

“You were far too modest about your detective's finer qualities. But, how can you leave your dear readers in such a state of suspense?”

“ _Readers_?”

“At least, this dear reader.”

“Now we're getting somewhere,” she tells him, watching him lean companionably against one of the porch columns. Not for the first time admiring his figure.

“I am happy to offer several suggestions for the sequel,” he tells her, tilting his head towards her.

“Start with the facts, please,” she demands, with a tiny smile.

“Marta, you killed them all with kindness. I've never seen such a thing. You're most remarkable.”

“Getting warm, but, not sequel worthy,” she tells him with a shake of her head, watching him lean in closer, and his face takes on a serious expression.

“O brown eyes, how warm you are,” he tells her, closer. “With look I may not meet, lest there I read too deep and far, a meaning wild and sweet.”

“Unexpected,” she says, feeling silly and warm at his earnest expression, her eyes drop to stare at his mouth. “But this detective, she needs-”

“You have but to say the words.”

“She needs _more_ than words," she tells him, letting her hand fall to her side.

He looks like he needs to be kissed, anyway.

She takes in his tender, corny sweetness, his brawny arms circling her and making her feel safe and swept away at the same moment. All his warmth pressing back against her, making her gasp just as the lights inside the house turn off, leaving them standing together in the dark.

Finding his eyes in the dim moonlight, he is looking down at her, his fingers letting a loose strand of her hair slip through them.

He quietly laughs as he presses his lips to her, but this time at her temple, eyes alert.

“This is definitely going to need a sequel,” he whispers into her hair.


End file.
